Broken Wings
by Medusae Aequorea victoria
Summary: John, sad but resigned to Sherlock's death.


June 27 2011

Dear Sherlock,

I know it's pointless and a sign of my not-so-good mental health that I am writing a letter to you when you are dead, all the while hoping you aren't dead, which is completely illogical I know. That's the funny thing though; to me you don't seem like you are, you know, dead.

I've had the feeling since the moment I saw you fall from the roof. It's crazy but I almost expected you to start flying or something, anything but hit pavement. I couldn't believe it.

Were you surprised Sherlock? Did you think you could fly? I can't imagine you doing something like that otherwise. You weren't that kind of man.

I guess your wings were broken. How could I have missed that? If only I had paid more attention, I could have fixed them for you.

God, I think I'm going mad!

Anyway, you are still my Sherlock who I talk to in my head every day and that's what I'm writing to you about, you being _my_ Sherlock. I want to tell you something. Actually, I _need_ to tell you something. I don't know how you would have taken this while you were still alive but something tells me you wouldn't have minded too much. In fact, you probably knew it already, long before I did. If so, thanks for sparing me the panic attack from you telling me. If not, then here is what I want to say….

Bloody hell, I can hardly say it.

Yeah, actually it seems that I can't say it at all. OK, right then. I'm going out for a walk to think about this some more.

* * *

OK, right, I'm back now. So here goes…..I am in love with you Sherlock. There, I said it. And I don't mean 'I love you like a friend kind of love' although I do love you like that too. What I mean is that I'm romantically, madly, crazily, sex-and-all-of-it in love with you. Jesus! That sex word was the hard one to say, maybe I'm not so "it's all fine with me" as I thought I was.

Anyway, I woke up knowing it for the first time this morning. It completely stunned me I have to say, but I knew it was true. And I think I may have felt this way for a long time but just didn't realize it.

The fact that you are gone now does not seem to have made any difference. Actually, I don't think I would have realized it if you were still here. It is because of the huge hole in my life and all the things about you that I'm missing so badly that I've figured it out. I mean, I knew I would miss many things about you Sherlock: your smile, and of course your glare, the one you aimed at me if you thought I was being especially dense. Oh, and the completely obvious and smug look you got when you thought you were successfully putting-one-over on me… and that mutinous frown of yours that told me you would refuse to apologize to the latest person you had offended - no matter what I had to say about it…The list of things I miss about you is endless.

Each one is like a feather dropping from those broken wings of yours. There was a huge drift of feathers left on the pavement that morning, Sherlock. Do you know what it's like to try to gather up a pile of feathers? It's impossible. The more you grab for them the faster they drift away, out of reach. That's what happened to me Sherlock. Everything precious thing about you that I treasured blew beyond my reach.

It's the things gone that took me by surprise that are the hardest to take, the scent of a wool overcoat in the rain, the way you always invaded my personal space. You know? I got used to it after a while and now of course I miss it desperately; then there was that one dark curl of hair that always fell the wrong way, the one my fingers itched to tuck behind your ear but never did. Then there was that penetrating stare of yours that drove every thought out of my head and all I could do was stare back. I always kind of felt like a hypnotized water buffalo when you looked at me like that….

Even the bad things I miss. Like that heart-stopping sadness that I bet you didn't know crept onto your face the rare times when you actually stopped _thinking_. It made me want to pull you into my arms and at the same time pound the hell out of whoever made you so unhappy.

I could go on Sherlock. The list of all the things that were torn out of my heart the morning you died is long and every one of them tells me with certainty that I was in love with you.

Now it's only four hours since I woke up and I feel like I have been in love with you forever. It's getting easier to say "I love you" to you in my head − although I'm not sure I'll ever be able to talk about the other part of it…the physical wanting part, Sherlock. That's okay though because I know you wouldn't want to hear about that anyway. Being married to your work and all. And that was just fine with me, it really was - not that I wouldn't have made a damn good effort to lead you astray from that 'marriage' if you were still here.

This whole realization about my feelings is calming me down. It's strange how the panic I'd felt since your death was gone when I woke up this morning. But I know why. It's because I understand now just what I lost when you fell off that roof. I wasn't sure before, I just knew it was bad, very bad and it terrified me. But now I know. I lost the love of my life that morning, it just took while to realize it.

I'm not mad about it anymore Sherlock. I know you did it for what you thought was a good reason. If I wasn't so hurt I think I would probably feel proud of you. Pretty heroic of you actually. And I dare you to come back and try to argue about that with me. You'll lose.

Anyway, I am tired now. I will go to visit you at the cemetery tomorrow. Maybe we can talk some more about this then.

All my love, John.


End file.
